Go hard or go home. Anything sinful, bad for you, against public healthguidelines: if you’re going to go in go in deep.
A salad bag from McDonalds? I’m not here for the 5 a day. A vape? I’m not here for tutti fruity. An alcopop? A low percent wine? A no percent beer?
No.
Thank.
You.
My first tippsy time was on a fourth year (yr 10) school trip to Belgium. Someone declared the pubs had a lower age limit than the UK. Whether they did or whether the bartender just didn’t care is by the by; a good portion of my 24 exposure fuji film was me in a Belgium bar, pint of Jupiler in hand.
I remember the cool of it. The fizz in the nose of it. The bitter trail it left from the back of my tongue, to my tonsils, down my throat until it hit my belly and lit a small fire.
After that school trip, I had a crowd of sorts. We’d meet up before the pop and crisp nights run 7pm – 10pm at local nightclubs. We’d buy a bottle of Thunderbird or Cinzano Bianco, head up an alleyway and neck it before entering. Burning. SLightly thick in the throat. A vile taste with a delightfuly quick hit. We were not toying here with trying a drink. We were diving in, head first, catching our breath, swimming and splashing and sometimes almost drowning together.
Budweiser, snakebite, blastaways. Every mouthfull made it clear to your brain and your body what was coming next. It was all consuming.
Uni, we’d neck neat Archers. Soon the heat of that wasn’t hot enough. I moved to vodka and lime (no soda).
After uni, no quaffable Prosecco for us. It was acrid cava, cheap wine and headaches. Drinking fast, and drinking more and drinking more. Even when I could afford the good stuff, I’d make it hit hard. I remember a night out with a friend at the Royal Exchange in London where I ordered Woods 100s chasers to go with each glass of champagne.
I loved the jolt of it. The promise of it. The violence of pouring the poison into my belly knowing that because of it the night could take any number of unexpected turns all the while knowing that in the morning I’d feel like crap.
I don’t drink each day but when I do drink I drink too fast and too much. I drink a lot but I can’t hold my drink. I’ll be the first to go when sharing a bottle of wine. Flushed cheeks. Flushed chest. A bit of a hyper high. When younger, the hyper bit, the taking the risks bit, the anything-for-a-laugh bit would last until 11ish after which time I’d crash out or cry with no clear idea of what I was crying for.
Early twenties, I got better at riding the wave and staying up all night on the stuff. I can still manage that now if my mood’s right, my time of the month’s right, my diet’s right. I know I shouldn’t, but I still love nights like that.
My last big drinking weekend was a hen do full of people who I knew but not well who came together like joyous sunbeams, excited at the thrill and the location and the likemindedness of the group. The booze hit good and we partied and danced and laughed and and barely slept and didn’t cry.
At one point, the early morning conversations woozily moved on to worry about the generations after us. What they are dealing with. How shitty they seem to have it. How it’s impacting their mental health. How down they often are. The world they’ve got to deal with. The self doubt and self harm.
We looked at the empty bottles, our smudged makeup, our glassy eyes and realised we’ve been self harming all our lives really. It’s just that when we did it, we managed to make it – at least in parts – feel like fun.
And that’s the thing with booze that tastes of lemonade and vapes that taste of raspberries: they’re hurting you but without the hit, the release, the pleasure of the pain.
I know it’s wrong to recommend a bottle of vodka over a one off alcopop. I know booze is not the answer to a mental health crisis or anxiety or stress. I don’t wany my kids doing what I did. Doing what I do. We should strive for a life where we do less bad shit and look for more helpful ways to help us deal with the bad shit life throws at us. But if we must have a blow out, a release, the hit of someting that is ultimately doing us harm, it must at least come served with a side plate of fun.
Cogito Ergo Mum 